From a Prison Cell
by Little Octopus
Summary: Alfred Jones is an at-large hit man with over fifty kills under his belt. His partner, Ivan Braginski is on the run from the Russian mafia. Arthur Kirkland is a thief who only works alone, he has successfully stolen over 100,000 in jewels, gold and diamonds. When Alfred and Arthur are sent to prison, they must but aside their differences and make an escape plan.
1. Chapter 1

From a Prison Cell

Chapter 1

Hit-man Alfred F. Jones lined his scope up with his target. Robert Paulson. Age: fifty-seven. Height: 5' 8". Weight: 250 pounds. Eyes: Brown. Hair: White. Occupation: CEO of Apple Products California. Wanted dead for stealing from the employer. Other details include him cheating on his wife with a bimbo thirty years younger, raping his niece and beating his dogs. Alfred could honestly think this man deserved to die, whether he got paid or not.

The target was getting out of his armored limo and making his way into his summer home. Robert Paulson lived in Switzerland and visited the sunny state of California between the months of November and April. It was more of a winter home than summer, Alfred thought.

The house was on the edge of the beach with a gated entrance. The front door was luckily facing inland while the back lead to the water. Alfred was across the street perched on top of an apartment building. He had a brown blanket over him to shield his white outfit from the guards who would be scanning the rooftops in about two minutes.

"Alfred," Ivan buzzed in his ear. Alfred's partner was on the street below in their getaway car; a work van with a gun case, live camera feeds and computers jammed in the back. The side proudly depicted a man squashing a bug, telling everyone to call them for their worst bug problems. "Is the target in sight? Guards are starting to gather at the entrance." They had hacked into the security cameras on the house. Ivan kept Alfred informed of those around the target.

"Yeah I got him," Alfred replied. "Start the van."

They pretended to be pest control because they could show up almost anywhere with the excuse of someone complaining about the bugs. Though some people got angry, it was quickly explained that Ivan and Alfred didn't charge unless they had to come back a second time and clean the bugs out. This visit was just to check everything out. They never came back twice.

With a steady breath, Alfred pulled the trigger of his M40 Sniper Rifle. Once Alfred saw Robert Paulson's head pretty much explode, he threw his blanket off and quickly disassembled his gun. After placing all the parts in his case and the blanket on top, he swung it on his back and slammed his white pest control hat on his head.

He didn't run down the stairs of the apartment building. He couldn't act like anything was wrong. He grinned as the manager, a short woman from Europe crossed the lobby to meet him.

"Everything's a-okay, ma'am. You got a pretty nice place here."

The woman grinned. "Oh, I'm so glad. I knew those people I had to kick out would try to get revenge."

"Some people are just petty," Alfred shrugged in a what-can-you-do sort of way. A brisk honk sounded from outside.

"Thank you, again. Have a great day," the woman shook Alfred's hand.

"You too, ma'am," then he was out the double glass doors and in the van.

Ivan pulled away from the curb. "Did you get him?"

"Brains all over his front steps," Alfred replied. He moved from the front seat to the back of the van. He took his gun from the bag and placed it among the other rifles. Tossing the bag in the corner, Alfred clicked on the TV. News of Richard Paulson's death was already headlining.

With a grin, Alfred mentally counted down from ten. The phone rang right when he said zero. It was a throwaway phone, only used to make and close business deals. They changed it every month and contacted their regulars for the new number.

He picked up the phone. "Yellow, Dave and Bill Pest Control, how can I help you?"

" _We just saw you completed your task,"_ a very sexy woman's voice said. " _Congratulations_."

Alfred grinned. "Awe, shucks, it was nothing."

" _The rest of your funds have been transferred into your account,"_ the woman said.

Pulling out his real phone, Alfred brought up his bank account and saw the rest of his fees were indeed in the account. "Pleasure doing business with you, miss."

" _We will contact you again, should your services be required."_

"I'll be here, bye-bye," Alfred hung up the phone and resumed his spot in the front seat.

"They didn't short us anything?" Ivan asked. He slowed for a red light and glanced at Alfred.

"Nah, I made sure before I hung up."

"Good. This thing needs an oil change," Ivan said. Alfred laughed, the light turned green and they were on their way.

Ivan was Alfred's best friend. They met through one of Alfred's employers two years ago. His old partner was stealing from the employers and was taken care of (in other words, he was killed). To repay Alfred for losing his partner, they introduced him to Ivan. He was wanted by the Russian mafia and illegal to the U.S.. He had a cake I.D. naming him Connor MccReady. He fought hard to hide his Russian accent in public, afraid someone would notice and questions would be asked.

They lived together in a small duplex on the side of the beach. The other half of the house was rented out to summer tourists. Alfred and Ivan shared the rent, food and other necessities from Alfred's bank account, since Ivan couldn't get a card, and Alfred took what was left over from their job and split it in half. That total was then cashed out and given to Ivan who was free to do what he wished with it. It was a good system and they had very few fights over money. When they did fight, it was usually over which food they wanted and if vodka was a necessity.

"Okay," Alfred said. "We should have plenty for an oil change. When do we need to renew the plates?"

"Not for a while," Ivan turned down their street. It was really just a one-way alley that was hardly big enough for their van. "I think we need more cereal though."

"If you would eat something besides cereal, we wouldn't need to buy a new bag each week," Alfred rolled his eyes. He watched the colorful duplexes and apartments roll slowly past. Many of them were for vacationers, though a select few lived in them. You could tell by how much junk was in the yard. It mostly consisted of water skis, small boats, life jackets and the occasional broken oar the dad swore he would fix but never did.

"Your food is weird here," Ivan countered. "I mean, why would you name it 'hot dog' and expect someone not to think there was actual dog in it?"

Alfred laughed. "Why would we put dog in our food? Everyone loves dogs!"

Ivan shrugged. "This country serves pickles with almost everything. I wouldn't be surprised if I found actual dog in my hot dog one day."

"What's wrong with pickles?" Alfred exclaimed. This was a usual bickering session. Ivan would point out something that he found weird and Alfred would get defensive over whatever it was. The subjects ranged from American food, to sports, shopping, clothes and about everything else.

"Nothing, I just want to know why they come with almost everything I order at restaurants," Ivan said pulled into their garage. It was hardly big enough to fit their van, but that was okay. Ivan didn't have much belongings and Alfred always kept a light load. He hadn't been caught yet, but he never knew when he would have to make a quick getaway.

"It is because they're yummy," Alfred laughed. He hopped out of the van and went through the garage and up the two steps that lead inside the house.

Ivan rolled his eyes and followed, slamming the button to close the garage door. "You Americans are crazy."

"Says the man who can drink a bottle of vodka by himself in an hour," Alfred called over his shoulder. The inside garage door lead to a kitchen. All the appliances were set into a wall that lead to a living room. A small metal table from the seventies Alfred had picked up at a yard sale for fifteen bucks sat in the middle. The kitchen and living room was separated by tile becoming carpet. The living room held a two person couch, a recliner and a small television. To the right of the TV were stairs that lead to the two bedrooms and bathroom symmetrical to the stairs.

"Vodka is good for you," Ivan replied. "My grandma lived to one hundred and she drank a bottle of vodka a day."

"How did she die?" Alfred asked. Ivan didn't talk much of his home life and when he did, Alfred got curious. Somewhat nosey.

Ivan grinned and set the keys in the bowl on the counter. "She was fighting a pack of wolves in the winter. After she killed them all, she went back inside, had a bottle and died of infection."

"Your grandma died fighting off _wolves_?" Alfred felt his jaw drop.

"Yes. She was a very brave and scary woman," Ivan said solemnly. He then pulled down the collar of his fake work shirt and pointed to a long silvery scar. "She stabbed me there when I refused to do homework."

Alfred choked on air. " _What_?"

Ivan laughed. "Just kidding. I fell down a slide and a loose screw got me."

"Dammit, Ivan!" Alfred punched his friend. "You totally had me!"

"I know, that's why it is so funny," Ivan said maliciously.

Alfred mocked him before flopping down in front of the TV. He changed the channel to the news. They were still covering his latest victim. They had no leads. Of course. Alfred killed many people and he never used the same gun in a row. They were on a random rotation between at least twenty firearms. It would take a genius or someone to snitch before Alfred and Ivan got caught.

Ivan took his spot on the recliner and passed Alfred a bottle of beer. Alfred switched the channel to a baseball game and they drank in near silence. They exchanged a comment when there was a bad call, when the batter was awful, or pointed out the tits on a random lady in the stands that would result in a rewind and pause session.

Ivan didn't much like the game, but he was growing fond of it the more he watched. He especially liked when the batter was hit with the ball or when an outfielder barely missed the ball. It was quite comical to watch.

Life was easy for these two criminals. Though they didn't consider themselves as such. Alfred never killed an innocent man, and Ivan ran away from the mafia _because_ they wanted him to kill an innocent man. Other than that, they were two regular bachelors. They paid their bills on time, went to the grocery store, drank a little too much after a completed mission and jerked off in the shower.

And though neither have yet to admit it, both were gay. Well, Ivan was bisexual and found he liked men that looked feminine. He hadn't told Alfred because of his time in the mafia. Hookers were common since he was twelve and his father and uncle had been fond of making fun of and actually murdering a few gay men in Russia. It was ingrained in Ivan not to be gay and never really thought of telling his friend. Alfred hadn't spilled his beans for a similar reason. He didn't find the woman body appealing and was set on finding a boyfriend/husband in the future, when he could retire. He didn't know if Ivan was against same-sex relationships and didn't want to ruin their friendship over something so trivial.

However, their sexualities will eventually reveal themselves. It won't be any problem between the two, and it will lead to Alfred's life being spared.

¤ Author's Note: I don't want to romanticize prison with this fic, I just wanted to aim for an original story. This isn't something where the bad guys become good, they will be criminals the entire time. It's my fake prison and my fake rules that are convenient to the plot so please keep "prison isn't like that" comments out. Don't go to prison, stay in school. ¤


	2. Chapter 2

From a Prison Cell

Chapter Two

Alfred was making his way downtown, walking fast. He had a reusable bag, California has banned plastic in his area, that was full of cereal, bread and ramen noodles. He really needed to convince Ivan to eat something else. And get his own groceries. It was annoying, especially when they had a job to do.

However, Ivan had sent Alfred for two reasons. One, was Ivan had a crush on the manager of Trader Joe's, and he already made a fool of himself once by not knowing to bring his own bag. Ivan's crush was a Chinese man with long brown hair pulled up and through the back of his yellow baseball cap to match his yellow shirt. Alfred did not know this, and had paid the manager almost no mind besides his brief hello. The second reason was that Ivan was working on their next target.

Alfred had gotten the call this morning. It wasn't any of his usual employers, which had made them both somewhat wary of taking the job. Then they told Alfred how much they were willing to pay and Alfred and Ivan quickly changed their minds.

Alfred let himself into the house and dropped his bag on the table. "How's it going, Ivan?"

"This is a tough one, Al," Ivan ran a hand through his already disheveled hair. "He's pretty high-profile." He had brought in his laptop from the van and made their research base the kitchen table. A yellow pad of paper with multiple lines written in Russian and English covered the top page.

"Who is he?" Alfred began putting the groceries away.

"The governor of California," Ivan dragged his hand down his face.

"What?" Alfred dropped the bag of cereal. "They want me to kill Arnold Schwarzenegger? I can't do that! He's like my favorite actor!" Alfred threw his hands up and began patting his pockets, searching for his phone. "We are _not_ killing him, it would be almost as bad as killing the president! Arnold is a national _hero._ I'm calling them and telling them we can't take this one, Ivan. I won't stoop that low."

Ivan stared at Alfred while he ranted. Finally, he interrupted him. "Arnold Schwarzenegger hasn't been governor since 2011."

"He's the greatest man alive- wait. What?" Alfred had his phone in his hand, ready to call their employer.

"He isn't the one we are meant to kill. We need to kill this David Freeman* guy," Ivan turned his laptop to show a wrinkly old white dude, not Arnold Schwarzenegger.

"Were not going to kill the Terminator?" Alfred asked sheepishly.

"No, stupid," Ivan had his computer face him again. "Now wipe your tears and listen."

"I'm not crying!" Alfred's defenses went up.

"Shut up," Ivan glowered at him. "This guy has security 24/7, we'll never get a clear shot with him out in the open."

"What about his house?" Alfred dropped into the other kitchen chair.

"Security everywhere, bullet proof windows and cameras. Outside isn't much better. High fences, more cameras and guards. It's going to be a tough one."

Alfred screwed his lips to the side. "What about a dinner or a speech or something?"

Ivan furrowed his brow. "Maybe," he mumbled. His fingers flew across the keyboard, halted, then tapped the mouse pad. His weird violet-blue eyes scanned the glowing text.

Feeling slightly useless, Alfred stood and made them sandwiches. He brought a bag of chips, two cans of pop and the plates to the table just as Ivan grinned.

"What?"

"He has a grand opening of a library next week," Ivan took a large bite of his turkey sandwich.

"If we rush, we can make it," Alfred said. He popped open his can, then frowned. "Why am I killing him?"

"Because we get paid to," Ivan said around his mouthful.

"No, no," Alfred said. He didn't grimace at Ivan's gross display, used to his lack of manners. "Is he a paedophile? A rapist? A murderer?"

Ivan rubbed his chin then began typing away at his computer. Alfred had made it a rule to himself that he wouldn't kill innocent people. The people he killed had to have hurt another person physically for him to deem them worthy of death. A couple hundred dollars stolen meant nothing to Alfred. But if the burglar had raped a wife or shot some kids, then Alfred had a problem.

He never really thought about why it made a difference to him, but a simple look on his childhood could explain why. His dad had beat his mom and him until the bastard was arrested. Then Alfred's mom remarried to an even worse man. He had taken advantage of Alfred at the tender age of eight and left him and his mother hospitalized more times than he could count. Then his mother died from 'falling down the stairs', resulting in fatal hemorrhaging in her brain and he was put into foster care. Alfred had snuffed out, or at least he tries to, all memory of his childhood the minute he was taken in by the Williams'.

His adoptive brother, Matthew, had been his best friend from the moment they met when they were both twelve. Matthew's parents were infertile and wanted another child. Matthew had been their miracle baby and they had kept trying for another. Then they got Alfred. It ended up being a match made in heaven. The boys liked each other, had the same interests and even looked alike.

Their dad (Alfred had been quick to call Paula Williams 'Mom' and Kent Williams 'Dad') was a cop and taught both boys how to shoot. The second Alfred nailed his first headshot on the humanoid target, he knew it was his calling. He took up lessons and even went to the station to shoot with Kent's squad. However, he had no plans to join the force.

At eighteen, he began looking for his birth father. Alfred found him working at a convenience store. He had studied his father's movements and knew the perfect time was when he would walk home, drunk, after his shift. It was a sketchy neighborhood and Alfred was good at sneaking out. He had shot his father with Kent's gun from ten feet away. The drunk fuck hadn't even recognized him.

Alfred had gotten home before 2 a.m., replaced the bullet and gun in Kent's nightstand, went to Matthew's room, crawled into bed with his brother and cried. He didn't cry from regret or sorrow, but from release. His father no longer had any ties to him.

He then found his stepfather. This one didn't go as smoothly as his first kill. The man had joined a gang and when Alfred had decided to kill him, ten guys were there. Alfred's gun held twelve bullets. He was hidden in the alcoves of the gang's warehouse-hideout and thought he could pull off the ten kills. He was light and fast and had many places to hide. He also knew that anyone associated with that man had to be horrible, so he did not feel any guilt shooting his stepfather then running almost silently across the beams to take care of his friends. He only missed once.

Leaving the warehouse, Alfred encountered the rival gang to the one he had just murdered. Seeing his work, they asked if he wanted a job. Alfred took it.

He lied and told his parents he was going to school in California. A long ways away from their Washington-Canada border home. They helped him move down to a nice apartment complex across the street from his supposed school. He got his own checking account and card and they left in a slew of tears and promises to visit soon. Alfred had cried too, but he was beginning to feel like the outsider of the family. Kent was a cop and Paula was a doctor. Matthew was well on his way to law school. Alfred didn't start going to school until the fifth grade.

He 'dropped out' after pretending to go to school for almost a year and told his family school wasn't for him. After that, Alfred began taking on his hit jobs. They got bigger and bigger jobs until he got to where he was now. A mystery to the FBI, government, a member of almost every gang without any ties to any of them and living happily with his best friend.

"Here he is," Ivan said after a long silence between them.

Alfred polished off his sandwich and pressed closer to Ivan to read the computer screen.

Turns out David Freeman had a trial about child pornography on his computer. It was dismissed, however, when the pictures suddenly disappeared. What really got under Alfred's skin was that it was his stepdaughter who came forward with the evidence and suddenly withdrew it. Alfred would bet his favorite gun those pictures were of her.

"Perfect, now we just need the time of the library opening." Alfred pushed the computer back to Ivan.

"It's right after the schools get out," Ivan said. "Four o'clock, so the kiddies have time to get there," he was reading the article about the library.

"How far away is the school?"

"Too far," Ivan said. He had a city map pulled up, the new library in the center.

"What else is close?"

Ivan screwed his lips to the side as he clicked and dragged on different areas. He smirked after a few moments. "The police station."

"That's a great idea!" Alfred said jokingly. "After I shoot the guy, I'll go right downstairs and let everyone know."

With an eye roll and laugh, Ivan kicked at Alfred. "Shut up, I'm not that stupid."

Alfred pushed Ivan's shoulder and stood. He began to pick up their lunch mess. "What about a convince store?"

Ivan gave a small nod and scrolled through the map. "Auto shop?"

"Why would an auto shop have a bug problem?"

"Maybe the roaches are eating the tires," Ivan said with a shrug.

That was the problem with their pest control guise, they had to make it believable to be there. They couldn't show up to a person's house and say they have a bug problem when no one reported it. Or to a pet store that had bugs everywhere anyway. Stores, apartments, and hotels were really the best way to go.

"Oh, here's a corner store. Might be tall enough," Ivan enlarged the store and read through the information.

This was their second issue. Alfred needed high or equal ground to take out his target. He couldn't shoot _through_ buildings and not being able to see his target lead to innocents getting hurt.

After a moment of Ivan typing and Alfred cleaning up their lunch, Ivan gave a small sigh of relief.

"Is it big enough?" Alfred asked, rushing over.

"Barely, you'll have to stand." Ivan showed him the building's schematics. It included height, width, floors, windows, what it was made of, and how long it had been standing.

Alfred sucked his teeth. It wasn't that shooting while standing was harder than lying flat, he was just more prone to be seen.

"I'll keep looking," Ivan said. Though the both knew it would be a long shot to find another building suitable for their needs.

A long moment of silence later, Ivan sighed and shook his head. "It's the best shot we have."

Alfred nodded slowly. "We'll have to make do. What day is the opening?"

"A week from now. Plenty of time."

"Alright. I'll call the guy and confirm. How much down payment should we get?" Alfred said, pulling out his phone.

"High profile, risky environment. Two thousand is the least I'd go. But start at ten."

Alfred nodded and called the employer. They negotiated for about five minutes before settling on four thousand. Alfred checked his account before he hung up, saw the money was in there and grinned at Ivan. "What gun should I use?"

Ivan beamed and clapped Alfred on the back. "Whatever gun you want!"

They spent the rest of the night going over plans and checking and rechecking their resources. They were both nervous. The mayor would be their highest target to date. That also meant high pay and high risks. Anything could happen. The mayor would have security everywhere and one mishap could lead to an innocent getting hurt or them failing the mission and losing the job. Maybe even getting caught.

*He's fake


	3. Chapter 3

From a Prison Cell

Chapter 3

Alfred got into the corner store just fine. He had issues getting to the roof though. There were piles of old papers and boxes full of promotional posters in his way to the hatch of the roof. A real pest control guy would have taken all the papers out and treated them for roaches, but Alfred just shoved them out of the way.

Ivan was downstairs, consoling the owner of the store. He was an elderly disabled man who couldn't get to the bathroom by himself and his grandson glared daggers at Ivan as he explained they were just checking to see if the complaint against the store was true.

By the time Alfred made it to the roof, Ivan was back in the van. Ivan wedged his ear piece in and pressed the 'connect' button on the computer screen and he and Alfred had a channel all to themselves.

"Are you in position?" Ivan asked. He pulled up the news broadcast on the library opening.

Alfred heard a small buzz in his ear, then Ivan's voice. "Almost. Where is he?"

"Arriving on stage in a few minutes. I don't have info on how long the speech will be."

"Gotcha," Alfred said. He lifted his binoculars and found the library doors. There was a red ribbon strung across them and an attractive lady was holding a pair of comically large scissors. There were about a hundred children with their parents in the audience.

"His car is pulling up," Ivan said. His voice was tight, like he was nervous.

"There's a lot of kiddos here, Ivan," Alfred sighed.

"They'll have a story to tell their friends," Ivan replied.

Alfred heaved another sigh and searched for the mayor's car. Probably black with heavy tinted windows.

"There's his car," Ivan said.

Alfred swung his binoculars around and spotted, as he suspected, a black car with tinted windoes stopped at the edge of the crowd.

"Should I do it now?" Alfred asked.

"If you can get a clear shot," Ivan replied. "No point in dragging this out."

Alfred shoved his binoculars in his bag. He picked up his gun he had assembled before and settled it against his shoulder. He felt exposed standing in the open like he was. It was a pretty desolate street and he was far enough away from the library for anyone to notice, but it still made his palms sweat.

He lined the scope up with the backdoor of the car. It opened. He held his breath as a head appeared. He waited until he could see the man's face. Confirming it was the mayor, Alfred pulled the trigger. He heard two gunshots and his gun fell from his hands in a flurry of confusion. He whipped his head around, searching for blood, for a body.

He had missed.

His bullet hit the wall behind Freeman and Alfred had been shot. It was just a graze across his fingers but it hurt like hell. He spun on his heel, looking in windows and on rooftops around him.

"Alfred? Alfred? What was that? I heard two gunshots," Ivan said loudly in Alfred's ear. "He's not down. Did you miss? Alfred?"

"Ivan," Alfred swallowed thickly and his friend silenced himself. "Leave. Don't make it obvious."

"What's going on?" Ivan asked. He sounded panicky.

"Someone shot at me. They knew we were coming," Alfred said. He was trembling. From fear, anger or pain, he didn't know. He slowly raised his hands above his head.

"Alfred-"

"Ivan, just go. You can't get arrested. They'll deport you. You'll end up back in Russia with the mafia." Alfred finally spotted the man who shot him. He was in a building diagonal to Alfred. He saw the gun flash in the sunlight as the gunman took it down.

"I can't leave you," Ivan sounded on the verge of tears. Alfred had never heard him so upset before. It brought a stinging to his own eyes.

"You have to," Alfred said. He heard sirens and panic set in. "Go now. Ditch the van as soon as possible."

Ivan sighed heavily in his ear. Alfred faintly heard the engine turn over. "Good luck man."

Then he was all alone. A few long minutes later, the trap door was thrown open and Alfred was surrounded. He was handcuffed and hauled back to street level.

There was no sign of Ivan or the van, thankfully. Alfred was dragged to a man with shoulder-length blond hair and stern green eyes. Alfred smiled. "Are you the one who shot my gun?"

"No," the man said. "That was my sister."

Slightly taken aback, Alfred nodded his approval. "Did you teach her?"

"I suggest you keep your mouth shut until you have a lawyer," he said.

"Fine, get me one," Alfred shrugged. The man glared and waved him away. Alfred guessed that he was their chief or lieutenant or whatever it was.

Alfred was shoved into the backseat of a police car. There was a man and a woman up front and another man in the back beside him wearing a bulletproof vest and a gun across his lap.

Alfred felt like he was going to be sick. They wouldn't have this many people unless they knew of his other kills. And what would his family think of him? Oh god, he could already picture their disappointed and hateful faces as the doctors strapped him to the table for lethal injection.

Alfred closed his eyes and willed those images away. No one would rat him out. He was the best hit-man in all of California.

So how did they find out?

Someone must have told. Maybe a gang member was linked back to a murder and when questioned, spilt the beans. And once they had Alfred's name, they were able to link all the other murders to him.

Or maybe he was spotted and they were waiting for him to show up again.

What if the cops had placed the order to have Freeman killed then waited for Alfred to show up. It made sense. The only building Alfred could use was the corner store. There were plenty of taller buildings around that the cops could use for snipers.

They arrived at the police station and Alfred was hauled out. As they walked through the doors, he spotted a young girl getting handshakes and claps on the back. She must have been the one to shoot him.

He was taken into a room deep within the building. There were no windows except for the one that was a mirror facing him and clear on the other side. His handcuffs were locked to the bolted down table and he was left alone.

A few minutes later, the blond man who was in charge at the scene walked in the room. He calmly closed the door and sat down across from Alfred. He had a manila file in his hands.

"Alfred F. Jones. Orphan, foster child, adopted by the Williams and now a hit-man. Your life has been very exciting hasn't it?"

Alfred wasn't sure if he wanted to laugh, cry, or vomit. He shrugged. "I guess you could say that."

"What I want to know is _why_ you killed all these people," the cop said. He sat down and spread over a dozen photographs on the table.

"Do I even get your name? Or is that against my rights?" Alfred said. He didn't look at the photographs. "I mean, I would like to know the name of the man who caught the legendary Alfred Jones."

The man narrowed his eyes. "Chief Detective Basch Zwingli. Now may we continue?"

"That girl who shot me, your sister, what was her name? Make sure the newspapers recognize the real hero of this case. What kind of brother are you? Sending her on such a dangerous mission. Your lucky I didn't spot her first or her brains would be all over that apartment she was hiding in," Alfred said. He knew this wouldn't help his case, but he was in major trouble. He wasn't about to go down without knocking some cops around first.

Zwingli slammed his hands on the table. It took every fiber of Alfred's being not to flinch. "This isn't about my sister or me. This is about you. A murderer."

Alfred licked his lips. He leaned forward, close to the detective's face. "What I did was a lot less worse than what those horrible people did."

"What gives you the right to determine what you did was lawful?"

"The people I killed were pedophiles, rapists, human traffickers. I _saved_ people by getting rid of them. I saved cute little girls like your sister."

Zwingli raised his hand as if to hit Alfred. There was a knock on the one-way mirror. The detective lowered his hand and left the room.

Alfred slumped back in his chair. He was shaking. He shoved his hands in his lap,hoping no one else had seen. He hoped Ivan was okay. If he was smart, he would take Alfred's debit card and empty it at various stores. Getting cash back after buying a candy bar or a pack of gum. He knew the pin number, and if he did it in small enough amounts in a short amount of time, he would be able to get a few hundred bucks. Ivan couldn't get what Alfred had in savings, the bank would ID him. Though he could go online and deposit the money where he could reach it, but that would leave an even bigger trail for the cops to follow.

Zwingli returned. He seemed calmer than before. He sat down and, with his hands steadily on the manila file, eyed Alfred. "Who is your partner?"

Alfred willed himself not to twitch. "I don't have one. I work alone."

"You lie. We have evidence of you with another man. Who is he?"

Think. Think. Think. He couldn't give Ivan away. What was his fake name? Fuck. He couldn't remember. Alfred smiled and rolled his eyes. "Oh, _him._ That's no one. Just a friend who I live with. He doesn't know about any of this."

"He doesn't know about your stash of guns? Or how you always seem to be out when someone is murdered?"

"I have a spot for my guns. He has a job so I don't see him anyway. And I didn't _murder_ people. I _saved_ their victims," Alfred said. He found it was easy to lie to this man. Lying to his family is the worst. Guess he doesn't have to lie to them anymore.

"That is not for you to decide," Zwingli spit out. "We know about your stupid pest control scheme so just tell us who your partner is."

Alfred felt his cheek twitch. Dammit. How did they know? Alfred rested his forearms on the table and leaned forward. "He doesn't know it's a scheme. He thinks were actual bug control guys. He has a visa from Russia and doesn't speak much English. Just forget him, okay?"

Zwingli eyed Alfred suspiciously. "He doesn't know you take a gun with you to each job?"

"I hide my gun in a bag. I tell him it's my equipment for the bugs. All he does is drive and keep track of my bank account. He's really good with numbers, you see."

"What is his name?" Zwingli pulled a pen from the inside of the suit jacket he was wearing. He slid a piece of paper from the manila folder.

Fuck. Change the subject. He's good at that. Alfred shrugged. "I don't know how knowing his name is going to help your case against me."

"Because your only defense is that the men you killed were perverts."

"I fail to see how that's not a good case," Alfred said. "I mean, what is yours? That I killed businessmen?"

"They had families-"

"That they _molested_ ," Alfred growled. He felt anger boiling in his stomach. "They deserved to die! I help people! I'm a hero!"

"No," Zwingli said. He gathered the papers and shuffled them back into the folder. "You're a murderer."

Alfred flinched at the word. "I'm not."

The detective went to the door. "Someone will be by to escort you to your cell."

"Cell? Like as in jail?" Alfred tried to stand, but the cuffs prevented him from getting very far.

"Yes. Then you'll be put on trial. The jury will decide your fate." Zwingli opened the door, Alfred could see a small group of people gathered there. "I wouldn't be too hopeful." He shut the door quietly behind him.

Alfred slumped in his chair and dropped his head to his hands. This was the end of his killing spree.


	4. Chapter 4

From a Prison Cell

Chapter Four

"Hey, I know him!" Yao said loudly.

Arthur flinched and threw a glare over his shoulder. "Did you have to shout?"

"Sorry," Yao said. He spun his chair out from his desk, stood up from his array of computer screens and plopped down next to Arthur on the couch. "It's that guy from the store! The one with the cute friend."

Arthur looked back at the tv. The news was on, broadcasting the sentence of Hit-man Alfred F. Jones. Multiple life sentences, without a chance of parole. Barely escaped the death penalty due to the fact his victims were also criminals.

"You have to narrow it down," Arthur said. "You think every guy is cute."

"I don't think _you're_ cute," Yao said. Arthur gave him the finger and Yao stuck out his tongue. "The Russian who comes to the store. They come in all the time. You've probably seen them once or twice."

Arthur shrugged. "Why does it matter? He's going to prison. Which is something I won't do."

"If you don't get caught."

" _We,_ Yao. You're just as big a criminal as I am."

"Whatever. I need to stay out of trouble so I can break you out." Yao got up from the couch and sat back at his computer.

Arthur rolled his eyes and watched the highlights of Jones's case. There was a close up of three people, the footnotes said that they were Jones's adoptive parents and brother. As Jones was escorted out, the mother began to sob.

The anchor then explained Jones was caught in a trap, set up by police. The head detective of the case came on the tv and explained it was a simple matter of limiting the assassin's shooting range, then targeting any suspicious activity. When the picture was replaced with Jones, he was asked off-camera if there was anything he would like to say. Jones glared and turned away. The anchor came back on and moved on to Arthur's story. Though only he and Yao knew who it was about.

"Yao, we're on," Arthur said casually, though his heart was pounding.

Yao spun around in his chair. "Took them long enough."

"Shh." Arthur hit the volume button a few times.

" _Breaking news,"_ the anchor said, his face serious. " _Over ten thousand dollars has been found missing at a local bank. The customers that have been robbed may or may not get their money refunded from the bank. Employees have reported nothing suspicious in the last few weeks, making investigators believe it may be an inside job."_

"Those idiots. If they checked the computers they could tell it was an outside source-"

"Quiet, they're still talking about us," Arthur said.

" _Do the police think this could be connected to robbery at that major bank a few months back?"_ the pretty news lady asked the male anchor. It was a scripted question and she did an awful job at delivering it.

The anchor made an 'eh' kind of face and shrugged. " _There are a few similarities but not enough to determine if it is indeed the same people."_

Yao rolled his eyes. "I swear. _Few similarities._ It was exactly the same!"

Arthur shrugged. Yao did all of the security work so he wouldn't know about the cameras and the computer overriding stuff. All Arthur did was give the fake name and ID, the real account number and withdraw as much as he could. Unless it was a safety deposit box. Then he broke into as many as I could while Yao messed with the cameras and security.

Arthur clicked the tv off and stood. He stretched, his arms to the ceiling and winced. He had a wicked sunburn on his shoulders from their day at the beach yesterday. He could never tan and his pale skin just turned lobster red.

He was from England, and at eighteen, was on holiday visiting the states, when he met Yao. They had both been in New York at the time. Arthur, low on cash, had tried to pickpocket Yao. Arthur had always had sticky fingers, whether it was a candy bar at a gas station, or a little toy at the grocery store, if he wanted it, he took it. And he had seen Yao's wallet at a popsicle stand, on that fateful day five years ago, full of freshly traded U.S. dollars. However, Yao had seen Arthur looking and caught him before he could run off. It was Yao's idea to be partners, claiming they could get a lot of money. After some reluctance, Arthur agreed. But only because Yao had been so quick to catch Arthur. He didn't need someone like that as his enemy. As a sort of test run, they robbed a wealthy man's house in Albany. Yao was able to disarm the house and Arthur slid in and out without so much as a dog barking.

They left New York and made their way west to California. They hit a few other houses on the way Yao was able to disable almost any alarm system. As they got money, they were able to buy Yao a computer, Arthur supplies (such as gloves and black clothes), and a van as their headquarters. They used walkie-talkies until they could buy an earpiece for Arthur and a headset for Yao. With their new equipment, they targeted banks and large companies. When they couldn't steal cash, they took product; jewellery, phones, laptops, cameras, and sold it on the black market.

They landed in California, got Arthur a fake name and credit card and bought their house. Luckily someone had ran a drug ring in the place so they got it on a steal. Yao had his computer setup and they were able to talk through their earpieces up to 100 miles apart. Buildings, power lines and anything else caused no obstruction. Not even the heavy duty bank safes cut them off.

Yao got his job at Trader Joe's to help disguise their large amount of income. He took his cached paychecks and a handful of money to the bank every other week to make a deposit in their account, telling the bank each time that the company was having issues making a direct deposit or some other excuse. The job also gave him something to do between stealing jobs. Arthur enlivened Yao for being able to get out of the house every day, but since he was legal while Arthur was in the States on 'vacation," he was stuck with the household chores and finding other things to occupy his time.

There were no romantic feelings between them. Sure they both swung for the same team, but Yao was entranced with one of his regular customers at work. A tall Russian man with strange white hair and crazy violet eyes. Also, apparently a friend of a crazy vigilante. Yao had seen that Jones guy with the Russian enough times to know they were just friends, but he had no clue that Jones was a murderer.

Arthur, on the other hand, preferred to stay single. He didn't want to get in a relationship then get caught a thief. That would be messy. He went on dates and would bring one or two home, but he never really had a boyfriend. Besides, finding Yao trustworthy was hard enough, he didn't need anyone else to know what he did for a living.

Yao spun back to his computer. "You know, if you ever get caught, I'm going to have to abandon you." His fingers flew over the keys and text that Arthur couldn't read scrolled across the screen.

"Oh, really?" Arthur stood behind Yao's chair and watched him work. Even though he didn't understand it, Arthur was still fascinated that a bunch of gibberish could actually mean something. And it was almost hypnotic to watch the screen.

"Yes, really. Who else is going to break you out of prison?" Yao stopped typing and tied his long brown hair back into a ponytail.

Arthur smiled, though it didn't meet his eyes. "Lets just pretend I'm not going to prison."

Yao patted Arthur's hand and continued to mess with his computer. "No problem. But could you call dinner? I'm starving."

"Why don't i make something? We can't order out every night."

"Because you are terrible at cooking. I'm thinking wings. Do they deliver?"

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Fine. I think they do. What flavor do you want?"

"The spiciest they have," Yao said. He threw a smirk over his shoulder.

"Fine, but I'm getting a dessert," Arthur said. Spicy food didn't sit well with him and he could never eat a whole order of wings by himself. Yao didn't care much for sweets so Arthur usually got full on whatever dessert he wanted.

Yao waved a hand. Already uninterested in what else Arthur had to say. Plus, he had a new code to crack. The system he had been trying to gain access to was building new firewalls and defense codes on the daily. He would have to hack it a few times a day for almost a month to avoid detection. He usually hacked the computer system of their target a week or two in advance and created his own account as either an employee or an antivirus system. Something no one would suspect. He then would login around 9 a.m. then log back out at 5 p.m., making it seem like he wasn't an intruder. After that, Arthur would either enter the place as a customer, employee, or homeowner (depending on the target), and Yao would conveniently switch the cameras to show empty rooms, unlock doors, and lock them again when needed.

Banks were the hardest with their many cameras and industrial locks. However, as an 'employee', Arthur would get the numbers of a male banker with blond hair and about his height then pretended to be him. Yao then made sure the cameras weren't on Arthur's face. Being a customer and withdrawing something from a safe box was the next easiest. A fake I.D. (that was promptly destroyed after they used it) of a man similar to Arthur's looks, and the cameras not focused on his face. Houses were the easiest. Yao could hack a home safety system in minutes and the cameras were hardly ever in the bedroom. Arthur would break in, locate the safe, crack the code and avoid all cameras. Most were placed at the points of entrance, but Yao could always cause a power surge if Arthur couldn't get in unseen.

Arthur came back and told Yao their food had been ordered. "How's it looking?"

"Tough. I'll have to go in a couple times a day."

Arthur breathed through his teeth. "That sucks."

"Tell me about it." Yao got into the system and dared to relax his shoulders. "But if we pull this off, we'll never have to do this again."

"Until we decide we need to buy another house," Arthur said with a grin.

Yao rolled his eyes. "We'll have to be careful. Unless you want to get a job."

Arthur grimaced. He had pumped fuel back in England and hadn't clocked in anywhere since meeting Yao. He did not want to go back to work. This was his job. _Stealing_ was his job. And he liked it.

"That's what I thought," Yao said with a smirk.

The computer gave a high pitch beeping sound and the smirk fell away from Yao's face. He swore and spun back to the screen.

"What happened?" Arthur asked. He gripped the back of the chair. Fear set heavily inside his chest. Had they been caught? Were the cops alerted about them?

"I don't know, but I think we're okay. Hold on," Yao said quickly. He typed and clicked the mouse rapidly as he mumbled to himself about codes and other computer nonsense. Arthur leaned over the back of Yao's chair to watch the screen, as if he could be of any help.

After about five minutes of Arthur's heart in his throat, Yao sat back and heaved a sigh. "We're good, we're good." He began to explain what happened, something with a hidden backup security thingy Arthur didn't understand, but his heart finally returned to his chest.

"Are we still okay to go through with this?" Arthur asked when Yao stopped talking.

"We should be, but let's give it another few days, maybe a week. They'll be expecting somebody now, they'll up their security, their logins, and about everything else. We'll wait for them to relax then go.

Arthur nodded slowly. "And then we won't have to do this for a while, right,"

"Not unless we get a house that costs more than Kim Kardashian is worth," Yao said.

"You know who Kim Kardashian is?"

"I do watch tv despite being a computer guy, Arthur."

Instead of answering, Arthur went to wait for the delivery guy. He knew this operation was risky, but was it more risky than having multiple investigations on his head? It seemed sixes to him. Might as well get it all over with in one go rather than have to keep going back again and again. As he watched the replay of Jones getting arrested, he just wished he would never be broadcasted like that.

*Author's note: I'm leaving FF and this story will be continued on Archive of Our Own. My user name there is Little_Octopus and the story has the same title. See you there!*


End file.
